Fractured Mind
by Amos Whirly
Summary: [ONESHOT] Rogue reflects on how difficult life is.


**Fractured Mind**

**X-Men: Evolution **

**By Amos Whirly**

     Do you know what it's like?  

     No.  You can't.  You can't possibly understand what it's like to live alone, in silence, in terror.

     In terror of what I can do to other people.

     In silence for fear of rejection.

     Alone because I can't let anyone close.

     For most teenagers, high school is an experience that teaches them about the real world, what it's like to have friends, and maybe even what it's like to fall in love.  High school opens a door to a new world of possibilities and opportunities, the paths to a future somewhere down the road of life.

     Well, I've learned about the real world.  That's probably the only thing I've learned from school.  I've learned what it's like to be hated for no reason, mocked for being different, and used by people with more power than me.

     And friends?  I have no friends.  I have the people I live with, but—I'll admit it—I care for them.  Maybe even think of some of them like family—heck, one _is_ family.  Yeah, I'd risk my neck for them.  I'd take any chance to save one of them.

     But no matter how hard I try—no matter what lengths they go to for me or me for them—I can't call them my friends.  I can't let them get that close because every time I do, something happens.

     It turns out they're only using me or—or that I'm only using them.  That's how it works with me and friendship.

     I have no friends. 

     I'm really the only person I can count on.

     It's better that way.

     And love?  Yeah, right.  I watch people all around me fall in love every day, usually with a different person each time.  Crushes, obsessions, and Valentine's Day wishes—I don't have time for it.  I don't even _want _time for it.

     Once I had a thing for Scott.  Scott Summers.  Cyclops.  Our undisputed leader. 

     What was I thinking?

     Scott only has eyes for Jean, and I'll give Risty—I mean, Mystique—I'll give her one thing.  She was right about them.  

     They deserve each other.

    And as for futures, well, my life has no future.  The only thing I _know_ about my future is that I'll live the rest of my life without knowing what it's like to touch another human being.

     Not a handshake.

     Not a kiss.

     Not even a gentle tap on the face.

     Nothing.

     Just me.  Alone, with all the voices of the people who've been unlucky enough to get in my way trapped deep down inside my head.

     Kurt.  Kitty.  Jean.  Scott.  Storm.  

     Avalanche.  Quicksilver.  Toad.  Sabertooth.  Juggernaut.  Magneto.  

     Mystique.  

     And a host of others, some I know and some I don't.  

     But I can still hear them.  Even though Professor Xavier tried to wipe them out, to erase them, they're still there. 

     All of them.

     Whispering all the time—urging me, pleading to be released from the prison of my mind.

     I've learned to block them out, but some days they're so loud—

     Maybe that's why I can never think straight any more.  I've got so many voices in my head that I can hardly hear my own voice.

     It didn't used to be this way.  I used to have complete control over it.  I could turn them off when I wanted and go about my life, but now—Now it's harder to ignore them.  Yeah, the Professor tuned them down, but they haven't gone away.

     I don't think they ever will.

     I just sit here in class staring at the chalkboard while the English teacher paces at the head of the room, droning on about verbs and nouns.  If only I could use some of the personalities in my head to write a decent paper every now and again.  That would make it all seem a little more bearable, at least.

     I pull absently at the index finger of my right glove, drawing the fabric across the top of my hand slowly and imagining it to be someone else's hand.

     For an instant, the image of a fiery-eyed Cajun flashes across my vision.

     I blink hard to make it go away.  I'm not interested in Gambit, at least that's what I keep telling myself.

     The teacher says something sharp, and I look up for a moment, only to find him quoting out of a book dramatically.  I roll my eyes and sink lower in my seat.

     _I can't wait to graduate_.

     The bell suddenly rings, and all the students in the room stampede for the hallway.

     It's the last class of the afternoon on Friday.  They all have parties to go to, girlfriends or boyfriends to spend time with.

     Not me.

     I gather my stuff slowly and plod toward the door.  I step into the hallway and start down it, staring at my reflection in the tiles.

     I still opted for the pale white face powder and the dark eye shadow.  I think it makes me look like someone worth avoiding.  The last thing I need is people hanging around me.

     More people for me to hurt.

     More people to hurt me.

     Eventually, I step into the fading sunlight of the world outside Bayville High.  Logan is waiting in the car to pick us all up.

     Kitty, Kurt, and all the other students who go to Xavier's School for the Gifted are heading toward the vehicle, shouting loudly about the arrival of the weekend.  

     I shift my book bag and climb into the car, buckling my seatbelt and muttering something about stupid sophomores.

      "Bad day, Rogue?" Logan growls from the front seat.

     "Whatever," I answer noncommittally. 

     Logan knows me well enough by now to shut up.  He doesn't pursue his line of questioning, although I know good and well that he wants to.  

     The others file in and start yammering.

     Kitty flops next to me and starts chatting about her wonderful day.  Kurt is beside her echoing his sentiments and commenting on the casserole that had been served at lunchtime.  

     "What did you think, Sis?" he leans forward and grins at me.

     "Don't call me that, Kurt," I snap at him.

     "Aw, not a good day, huh, Rogue?" Kurt made a clicking sound. 

     I turn my gaze out the window and snort into my palm.

     They can't understand.

     No one can.

     Logan pulls the van into the garage outside the Institute, and we all file out.  The only place I want to go is my room.  I manage to slip past Logan before he tries to speak to me again.

     I drop all my bags in my room, dash into the bathroom quickly, grab a handful of ibuprofen tablets, and choke them down with a little Dixie cup of lukewarm tap water.  I change quickly into some comfortable clothes and crash on my bed, determined not to move again until the morning.

     I lay still, staring at the ceiling and trying not to focus on all the voices seeming to reach a high point in my mind.  So many voices—so many personalities—all wanting different things.

     How am I going to do this?

     How am I going to live like this for the rest of my life?

     A mild explosion sounds above me, and a furry blue figure lands on my bed so violently that it bucks me off and onto the floor!  I crash on the carpet and glare up at my bed, my face red and my eyes snapping. 

     "Oh, sorry, Rogue," Kurt says to me sincerely, his furry blue face lined with worry. "Not very good at cheering-up, am I?"

     "What are you doing here?  Don't you know better than to 'port into people's rooms without permission?"

     "Sorry," Kurt scrambles off my bed and smoothes the wrinkles with his three-fingered hands. "I was bringing you a cookie."

     He pulls a plastic bag out of his belt.  Inside the bag is what remains of a chocolate chip cookie, crushed and crumbled.

     "Oh, well," Kurt shrugs uncomfortably. "I'm probably not helping, am I?"

     I take the bag from him and look at it.  With a sigh, I escort him to my door.

     "Not really," I tell him, "but thanks anyway."

     He grins broadly as I shut the door in his face.  I turn back to my bed and sit on it, staring at the crushed cookie in the bag.

     "How am I going to do this?" I wonder aloud with the barest hint of a smile. 

     I open the bag and take the largest fragment of cookie, and I start to eat it slowly.

     "One day at a time."

     Maybe it's the painkiller—or maybe it's knowing that someone really does care—but the voices in the depths of my fractured mind quiet and lessen, fading into the shadows of my consciousness.  

     I close the Ziploc bag and set it on my nightstand, quite a few cookie fragments still inside.  I could eat them all now, but I think I'll wait.

     I'll wait until the next bad day, because I know it's coming.  And when I'm just sure I can't take it anymore, I'll eat a piece of Kurt's crushed cookie and remember.

     I'll make myself remember that I'm not really alone.


End file.
